“I have to apologize for this sweatshirt I’m wearing. It’s just so cold here today.”

Those were the first words Randi Zuckerberg said during a fifteen minute Skype conversation we had on December 18th.

Yep, you read that right. Randi flippin’ Zuckerberg!!

Here’s how it happened.

On December 5th I received an email from a woman named Ashmi who is the marketing manager at Zuckerberg Media—the company founded by Randi Zuckerberg post her six-year position managing marketing at Facebook. Here’s a portion of that message:

“I’m reaching out to see if you’d be interested in joining a 1:1 Skype session with Randi as part of her influencer/blogger satellite tour.”

Now I’d love to tell you that I hit Reply and wrote a breezy: “Sure, count me in.” but that would be a lie. I did get back to Ashmi once I’d returned from the emergency room where I received ten stitches in my forehead. Upon reading I passed out and did a face plant on the spike heel of a ridiculous pair of platform pumps that I’d tried on earlier that day, then tossed aside when my toes began to cramp.

OK, I really didn’t faint or need stitches but those pumps were littering my floor as I sat there in shock—reading then rereading the message.

Was a Zuckerberg really contacting me?

So I replied that I’d love to Skype with Randi and then immediately downloaded her book, DOT COMPLICATED: UNTANGLING OUR WIRED LIVES, to my iPad. I was reading for research that quickly transitioned into pleasure as Randi shared her life. The reader learns about her childhood and college experiences, what Facebook was like in the early days, some of her blunders—both professional and personal, and what she’s doing now. My favorite story was how she met her husband Brent—a “lovely guy with a beautiful South African accent”—during a “Harvard rager” that she clarifies was just a “relatively fun party.” Several years later, she and Brent were dating and he’d moved to New York City to be with Randi when she was offered a position with Facebook when it was in its infancy. Accepting the job meant a move to Silicon Valley. Love the advice her mother gave on moving and leaving Brent in New York, “Randi, do not fuck this one up.”

Randi also shared what it was like to get a call from the White House asking if Facebook would be interested in hosting a town hall event with President Obama—streaming live—as part of his nationwide tour to make his case for a new economic policy. Oh, and she had two weeks notice and there was this other little thing. She was eight months pregnant. She made it happen even though she started with a barebones warehouse and a couple of cameras. What’s a little thing like hosting POTUS with two weeks notice while sorting out logistics, security, and an event that will stream live to millions?

I respect tenacity.

It was December 18th and the big day had arrived. I’d set up my computer in the proper position so I was looking up instead of down, avoiding the double chin and tired eyes perspective that is the bane of the video conversation and the middle aged woman. I was nervous but prepared.

As I told you before, Randi began by apologizing for her sweatshirt as she Skyped from her kitchen (crazy clean, by the way) looking beautiful and relaxed. I admit I was bringing my A-Game with makeup on and hair coiffed but once she mentioned the sweatshirt I had to confess. Below the fuchsia silk blouse and out of camera range I was wearing sweatpants and Uggs. I told her, we laughed and the conversation continued.

She asked many questions about the complexities/intricacies of online dating. I shared some of my experiences and newfound expertise. One such question, “Should a person Google someone before a first date?” allowed me to share one of my most humiliating experiences during the year of online dating. I told her about the guy who’d read the blog before our first date. Click here to read it.

Fifteen minutes goes by quickly when a person’s having a good time and I was. Randi told me that others were there with her and they had questions but she was having so much fun, she wasn’t sharing. I liked that and I liked her. The conversation was so relaxed that I forgot I was chatting with “Randi Zuckerberg.” Upon reflection, it’s quite surreal actually.

If you have a chance, pick up DOT COMPLICATED. It’s an excellent read and if you have kids in your life I would also suggest her children’s book, DOT.

Here’s wishing you all a wonderful holiday—or non-holiday if you’ve chosen to BURN IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY. I’ll be back in 2014 and there are lots of exciting things in the works. I hope you continue to follow along.

Stay tuned.

“Everybody gets so much information all day long they lose their common sense.” Gertrude Stein

Each week I receive email messages asking if I’d be willing to promote another blog on my website. The requests are sometimes humble:

I’m just starting out and would be so grateful if you would add my blog to your blogroll.

I don’t have a blogroll, which means they didn’t thoroughly check out the website, but I appreciate the tone of the message.

Sometimes they’re presumptuous:

I have a new blog and am willing to cross-promote yours on my site if you’ll do the same.

Um, let’s see, you have a new blog which means you’ll “promote” mine with your current followers—your ten closest friends and lonely Aunt Edna. Thanks?

Occasionally, they’re downright rude:

I haven’t had a chance to read all of your blog but I just started my own about online dating from a younger person’s perspective and mine is really funny. Would love a plug.

OK, I’m all over that, especially since you’ve told me three things: you’ve not read any of my blog (don’t bullshit), you think I’m old, and not the slightest bit funny. I’d be crazy not to help!

I do always check out their blogs. It’s not that I’m opposed to helping someone who’s just getting started, but I’m not about to stick my endorsement on mediocre anything, and that’s a kind assessment in most instances. I know many literati look down their noses at what I do. In their world, blogs are to writing what Velvet Elvis is to art.

That’s rapidly changing, but there are the holdouts smugly clutching The New Yorker magazine while refusing to share a seat at the Algonquin Round Table they’ve created in their minds.

That same highbrow group would gasp if I told them I could hardly stomach Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking.

BUT, I’m not snoot-free, either. I want writing that grabs me and takes me along for the experience. My standards are the same for books, newspapers, magazines, and, yes, blogs. Sure, it’s fantastic to have material such as a man pinching a woman’s breast on a first date, but if the writer can’t tell the story properly it’s irrelevant. I work hard on my posts and have yet to be approached by anyone asking for an endorsement whose writing’s kept me reading.

That is until recently.

Last week my inbox was bombarded with requests–ten to be precise. The first few I politely declined, but by the last several the responses grew terse. This was message number ten:

I’m not sure how this is done, or what the etiquette is, but I was wondering if you’d allow a link on your blog to my blog, which I just started two months ago. I would of course reciprocate. Thanks, Amy

The newbie was going to pay for the other nine that came before her. I decided I was taking off the gloves. I would be brutally honest—suggest she take writing classes, join a writing group, or give up on blogging completely since not everyone is cut out for writing. I actually created a disclaimer in my mind that I’d add to my website. It went like this:

Please don’t contact me to suggest I share your blog with my followers in exchange for reciprocation on yours. A quid pro quo-based endorsement of your work shows zero integrity.

Pompous, party of one, your table is ready.

Then I smugly clicked on Amy’s link and read:

I thought I was there. Paradise. At the least, it was within my reach. The man of my dreams–literary, brilliant, a trifle kinky–turned out to be an insecure, compulsive porn addict with bipolar disorder and pretensions to spare.

Well, knock me over with a quill pen!

I read on.

And so I was pitched back into the purgatory of single womanhood by this yellow-fanged, shaggy goat of a self-anointed god.

Beautiful writing,Amy. I’d be happy to recommend the blog. If you’re game I might be interested in interviewing you and writing a blog post, too. I get many requests to add blogs to my website but I’ve always declined because the writing, well, sucks. Yours does not and I think others should know about it.

So Amy and I chatted on the phone a few days ago. I learned more about the goat, whom she met online, by the way. He’s a well-respected writer of fiction. His latest book, however, is a nonfiction accounting of his sexual escapades with middle-aged women. Amy thinks her less than flattering portrayal in the book (yep, he wrote about her) is probably in retaliation for her many faked orgasms. Facts that are shared during a breakup can be devastating, especially with a man who’s a sexual legend in his own mind.

Hell hath no fury like a lousy lover scorned!

Amy thinks his motivation for the current book is to get laid and why not? What’s wrong with a man writing a book about the joys of being with middle-aged women and satisfying all their sexual needs in order to entice more middle-aged women into bed? Seems like a perfectly reasonable goal and there’s nothing lascivious or mercenary about it, right?

Amy’s blog, The Post Menopausal Paradise, is a beautifully written chronicle of her dating experiences now that she’s single again. I would highly recommend it and will be following along as she navigates the choppy waters of dating after fifty.

I hope you’ll give it a look.

When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. -Enrique Jardiel Poncela

I visited him in Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago. He’s been having some health issues—a broken hip followed closely by a broken femur. Both required surgery. After several weeks in a rehabilitation hospital, he came home in a wheelchair where he will remain for at least three months while his leg heals.

It has been difficult to rely on others during his recovery as he’s fiercely independent. He’s always been physically fit, too, so his body that once could do just about anything has become the enemy.

While he was in the rehab hospital my daughter Morgan flew out to visit. She realized immediately how unhappy he’d become and looked for ways to cheer him up. He loved being outside and moving so for an hour each day she’d push him around the exterior of the building in his chair. One day she asked if he’d like to listen to music during their walk as she connected her phone to Pandora Radio–he loves music from the sixties. He held the phone near his ear and sang at the top of his lungs to every song. He’d laugh as a tune triggered a memory then he’d share it with Morgan.

I took my iPad with me to Vegas and the first morning as he had his coffee and read the newspaper I asked if he’d like to listen to music. For the next hour (and then another hour later that afternoon) I watched and listened as my dad became joyful. His current condition had no place in those hours where the music moved him back in time. He wasn’t just remembering. He was there in that space where his body and mind were his to control.

He mentioned how good the sound was on the iPad and asked how much I paid for it. I suggested we go to the Apple Store if he wanted to buy one. He thought it was quite pricey even for a Mini. He’d have to think about it but in the meantime he’d enjoy listening to mine during my visit. I knew he wasn’t going to make the purchase so I decided to get him one for his birthday and I’d download Pandora and his favorite stations before mailing.

My father taught me many things but I think the most valuable was:

Make sure your children know they’re loved.

Every day when I was a little girl we had this conversation:

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“You’re the nicest girl in the whole wide world.”

“Nicest boy in the whole wide world.”

When I was away at college I lived with seven other girls in a suite of four bedrooms and a common living space. The telephone was on the wall in the common area where my father and I would talk once a week. The last thing he’d say to me was the above conversation. I was embarrassed to go through our ritual in front of my suite-mates, but he would have none of it. I’d mumble, “love you,” and hope to get off the phone without having to say my line. It never happened. “You didn’t say ‘nicest boy,’” he’d point out and I would quickly and quietly tell him as my suite-mates smiled and sometimes giggled at the childish expression. “Your dad is so cute, he really loves you,” said one kind girl.

She was right.

I’ve always known I was loved.

The tradition continued with my daughters and I relished the smiles on their faces as they repeated that familiar dialog.

So today, on his birthday, he’ll receive our gift. Here’s how we had it engraved.

He’ll listen to music and I hope it takes him back to a less burdened time. Maybe a song from the 1960s will trigger a memory of when I was a little girl and he was my hero.

I hope so because he still is.

My heroes are and were my parents. I can’t see having anyone else as my heroes. Michael Jordan

Just a quick post to let you know my second appearance on The Steve Harvey Show is airing again today (Tuesday, October 15th) in case you want to watch and missed it the first time. There are two shows airing tomorrow according to my guide. Mine is on at 11am Channel 4 in NY. The second is airing at 3pm but I won’t be on that one. Click here to locate the time and channel in your area.

Steve sets me up with a guy from Chicago. We ice skate and salsa dance. Yep, it’s embarrassing.

The best thing about exposing my private life on 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com is that I made lots of new friends. Most of them cyber but occasionally I’ve had the opportunity to put a face to those emails and such was the case on Wednesday night.

My friend Jo and I began exchanging emails a few months into my year. She found the blog through a Huffpost piece. She was close to my age, single and had been online dating. I enjoyed our banter and eventually we began talking on the phone. Our conversations progressed from laughing about our shared dating experiences to our children or the dreams we both had of making a living as writers. You know, deep stuff–the joys of Botox and all that.

I often wished she lived closer. I imagined we would have fun going out, hoping to meet suitable men, but if they didn’t show up we’d still enjoy each other’s company. Alas, she lived in L.A., nixing my wing-woman fantasy.

BUT, Jo loves the theatre and visits the city at least once a year. A few months ago I had a missed call and a couple of texts–she had news.

I could hear the excitement in her voice as she told me she had a surprise. It seemed Sting was going to do ten benefit concerts in NYC at the Public Theatre and she’d purchased two tickets. They were crazy expensive as the venue was only 260 seats and she knew if she’d asked before buying, I would’ve said, “No way.”

She didn’t and we were going!

I love Sting. I love everything about him. He’s a musical genius, a deep thinker and rip-one’s-clothes-off-if-given-the-chance sexy. He may or may not be into tantric sex—something that’s always piqued my interest and if he’s what sixty-one can be, where do I find his doppelgänger? Several years ago I even flew to Miami for The Policereunion tour–during the summer, no less. Do you know what Miami’s like in the summer? I searched for the photos because public humiliation is what I live for, but couldn’t find them. Suffice to say I danced through the entire outdoor performance and was the least attractive version of myself when the concert was over–makeup gone, a wet haired sweaty mess.

So on Wednesday, Jo and I met for the first time. She came to my place early for a glass of wine and the first thing she said was, “You look exactly like your photos,” and she did, too. Actually, Jo had water and I drank wine. I was a little nervous about our meeting and hoped it wouldn’t be awkward–it wasn’t.

Apologies for the flip-flops. I do wear heels but never put them on until almost to the destination. The dress is DVF—my fav—and I got it on sale at Bloomingdales. The black areas are leather and the color blocking is deceptively flattering. I paired it with a black leather jacket. I wanted a pair of black cage booties and loved the Michael Kors below but couldn’t find them plus I didn’t want to pay $200 or more for shoes I would probably wear only a few times.

Instead I found these at DSW for $60 and they gave me the same look I wanted.

Here’s a trick my daughter taught me. When you’re wearing shoes you know will give you blisters, apply runners anti-chafe stick to your feet. You’re dogs will still be barking but they’ll be blister-free in the morning even after hours of wearing heels.

OK, OK! Enough about fashion and back to the concert.

We left my apartment and headed to Lafayette for dinner near the theatre. We both ordered steak frites probably because a woman should have a good foundation of meat and potatoes when she’s getting intimate with Sting. The food was perfect as was the conversation but enough dilly-dallying. Mr. Perfection waited.

I couldn’t believe our seats. He would be no more than twenty feet away. “Holy shit,” I thought as the theatre filled, “If I rushed the stage and wrapped my legs around his waist could I do it tastefully?” His wife Trudie was one of the last to take her seat. She wore black leather pants and top with gray suede over-the knee platform boots. Her body was amazing—she’s fifty-nine. She was at the concert in Miami, too.

Why’s she always cramping my style?

Then HE came out with little fanfare wearing a torn white t-shirt and jeans. Pause right now while you’re reading this for a moment of silence because he deserves worship. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his perfectly toned physique. You should’ve seen his arms. I could die happy to have those wrapped around me just once and, of course, he’d simultaneously sing “Fields of Gold” in my ear.

The concert was given to introduce the audience to his current work, The Last Ship, a musical based on his childhood growing up in an English shipbuilding town. OK, I admit it was a little disappointing. I assumed we’d not be hearing his greatest hits, but he could sing nursery rhymes and I’d be on the edge of my seat. No surprise, his new work was beautiful.

AND he did throw in “Fields of Gold,” “When We Dance” and an encore of “All This Time.” “Fields of Gold” is one of my favorite songs and what woman doesn’t dream of hearing:

I never made promises lightly

And there have been some that I’ve broken

But I swear in the days still left

We’ll walk in fields of gold

He played for three hours with only a ten-minute break. He danced along with one song and I swooned. He wasn’t the best dancer but he was having fun and exuded confidence. Men, take note. You don’t have to be Justin Timberlake—just dance joyfully. Ladies love it.

It was magical evening, over too soon. Obviously seeing Sting was spectacular but the best part of the night was finally meeting my friend. I have no doubt we’ll have lots of fun in the future and this is a friendship I’ll appreciate, in the days still left.

It took me a while. I know, I know, I’ve had them for a couple of months but I’ve not felt physically attracted to any men I’ve encountered.

OK, that’s kind of a lie.

I’m attracted to lots of men, they’re just too young. I’m having a bit of a crisis because I am consistently drawn to men in their early forties. I’ve concluded that males are at their physical peak at that age and I chronically have to remind myself that I’m fifty-two. I guess a ten year difference isn’t that awful but there’s that voice in my head whispering that a decade WILL matter when I’m eighty.

There’s nothing sexy about a chick with a walker.

SO, I’ve been scouring the crowds in my fair city to find a fifty-something man whom I can imagine cozying up to. Physical attraction is always the first step quickly followed with an assessment of just how fucked up he is. Seriously, we all are (to some degree) with a half-century of living behind us.

Back to Saturday.

I spent the day with my surrogate family—Karen and Mark, my neighbors. It was a sweltering afternoon–Finnish saunas have nothing on the NYC subway system with the soaring temps coupled with humidity. We had just returned to our neighborhood after seeing the micro-living exhibit at the Museum of the City of New York, followed by lunch at the Red Rooster in Harlem. We surmised two things: living in the tiny apartment on display might be doable if we weren’t claustrophobic AND my fried chicken kicks Red Rooster “Yard Bird” ass.

As we exited the subway station at 72nd, a mountain of a man (at least 6’4”) approached and asked for directions. He was looking for a specific shoe store in our neighborhood, one that carried footwear in larger sizes. Karen, Mark and I looked at his feet and, yep, they were massive. “What size are they?” Mark asked and he replied, “Sixteen,” with a grin.

I admit that got my attention. Ladies, my brain went where yours would, too. You know you were thinking–big feet, big…..

I noticed he had an accent but I couldn’t place it. Let’s see: tall—check, age appropriate—check, accent—check, handsome–check and the potential foot correlation was a bonus. Mark gave him directions to the shoe store on 72nd and he plodded away but not before we had a moment. You know what I mean–that thing that happens when eye contact is made and held a couple of seconds longer than necessary.

As I watched him go I remembered my Cheek’d cards and started the awkward and annoying task of rummaging through my handbag to find them.

UGH.

I fumbled endlessly until I eventually located the cards but not without puncturing my hand with the bristle of a vent brush and dirtying my fingernails with the crumbs of god-knows-what from the bottom of my bag. Next I had to choose the appropriate card and by then he’d crossed the street and disappeared. Mark and Karen had an errand on 72nd Street so I gave the card to Mark and said, “If you see him, tell him it’s from the blonde.”

Who the hell says that besides Mae West?

I walked home wondering how long it would take for contact.

Perhaps I was being overconfident as I checked my Gmail account minutes after walking in the door. Cheek’d will send a message when someone has logged on using a card.

Nada.

I assumed that Mark couldn’t find him until he sent a text letting me know he’d given Paul Bunyan the card and also confirmed he wasn’t married.

Well, maybe he was busy with shopping and I’d hear from him later.

Nope.

Perhaps, because he’s foreign, he’ll wait until he’s returned to his hotel to use their computer so as not to rack up international charges on his smartphone.

Naw.

Still nothing by the next day.

AND every day after that.

A person can only make excuses for so long before facing the harsh truth—he wasn’t interested. I wasn’t deterred, though. I took the rejection in stride and faced his lack of interest like a big girl. “Who cares that he didn’t like me.” I muttered, “We could never slow dance with those clodhoppers all up on me.”

“I’ll be better prepared next time,” I thought as I cleaned out the chasm of crud also know as my purse. I put the cards in a strategic pocket, easily accessible the next time I found myself attracted to a handsome stranger, one with normal feet, mind you. I wasn’t going to let one tiny hiccup discourage me, no siree! There was no need to spend another moment looking back or deliberating (ad nauseam) as to why he didn’t make contact. And as I gathered the unsightly pile of pocketbook debris: gum wrappers, receipts, political flyers, a golf tee, a wine cork, half of a doggie chew stick, a broken rubber band, seven paperclips, two empty bottles of hand sanitizer, a used up tube of lip balm and the pile of crumbs of unknown origin and made my way to the garbage can I knew I’d put the unfortunate incident behind me.

Almost.

As I stood over the trash receptacle brushing the crumbs from my hands I had one of Oprah’s Aha! Moments.

“OF COURSE,” I yelled, without, um, delusion. “He must be gay.”

“I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more a fool not afraid of rejection.” Billy Joel

1. A producer who found the blog contacted me. The show was doing a makeover segment for women who’d recently gotten back into the dating game. The entire show would be about dating.

2. After multiple email exchanges I determined it wasn’t for me. I knew I wasn’t a “fashion don’t” and they couldn’t guarantee the blog would be mentioned—the only reason I’d consider appearing. I respectfully declined.

3. I was contacted again and told the blog would be mentioned and the show wasn’t about fashion disasters, but women who wanted to modify their dating wardrobe. I agreed to appear with my fashion addition being color since I always wore black on dates (see blog post “The Uniform”).

4. I went to the “People Magazine” office and worked with the style editor (who appeared on the show) and a stylist. A colorful dress was selected and the “Katie” production assistant who met me at “People” stated that the dress was mine to keep. I was told there would be three of us appearing on the segment.

5. The morning of the taping I arrived (by car, courtesy of the show) in my “uniform” of all black for the “before” photos. I was told makeup wasn’t necessary for those pics. You bet your ass I wore makeup.

6. The stylist arrived with our clothing and after a wonderful hair and makeup experience (those ladies were fantastic) we dressed quickly then had a lengthy wait in the Green Room. Lori Zaslow from “Love Broker” was another guest and she waited, too. I loved her show and shared how much I enjoyed watching. She was incredibly nice and truly authentic.

7. Finally it was time for our segment. The all-male audience made me a little nervous. The three of us waited just off camera and I expected our introduction to be about our decision to modify our wardrobe with things we wouldn’t normally wear.

8. Imagine my shock when Katie Couric talked about our concern over a lack of dates because our clothing was “man-repelling.” I turned to the woman who would appear after me and said, “Who knew we were such fucking losers?” The first woman took the stage as I tried to figure out what to do. I was next. I felt mortified and frozen but decided that I was there for a reason and my goddamn blog would be mentioned!

9. I took a deep breath and waited for the introduction. My “before” photos in all black appeared and Ms. Couric and the style editor gave their evaluation. Katie said, “Looks a little like catwoman,” which was like a punch in the stomach. It’s bad enough that we were introduced as a group of women unable to get dates, but that statement was personal.

10. I was mean-girled by Katie Couric.

11. I walked on stage; she mentioned that I was online dating. She stated that online dating was hard and I agreed. Then I turned to the audience of men and said, “What’s up with you guys?” They laughed. Katie added that I blogged about my dating experiences. She didn’t say the name of the blog, so I did, then answered a couple of questions and my segment was over.

12. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough but as I rushed off the stage, Lori Zaslow came up to me and said, “You owned (or rocked, can’t remember) that stage. I knew I’d made the best of an awful situation and that was some consolation. I also had a great dress (DVF) for my trouble.

13. I quickly grabbed my stuff to leave. The stylist from “People Magazine” hurried over and asked me to change out of the dress, as she had to return it to the store that loaned it to her. I said we were told we would be keeping the clothes. She apologized for the misunderstanding.

14. As I waited outside the studio for my car to take me home, a man approached. He mentioned that I was back in all black. Yep, I had my uniform on since I had to return the dress. He said he was in the audience and had waited outside for me. He wondered if I would like to go out. I guess he figured I must be desperate given my man-repelling clothes that were catwoman-ish. I’m not sure what I said as I jumped in the car and slammed the door.

15. The producer said I’d get an email message letting me know when the show would air. After several months I was relieved to see it hadn’t and hoped it never would. Ten months after it taped, my daughter’s friend who lives in Philly, sent a text letting me know it was on. The show did not notify me. No surprise. I watched from the link on the website since it had already aired in NYC. I relived the experience and was embarrassed all over again. I was also incredibly disappointed to see the portions where I gave the name of the blog, and had my audience interaction, were cut.

I’ve always respected Katie Couric and identified with her in several ways. She lost her husband whom she loved very much—so did I. She raised her two daughters alone—me too. Her husband died of cancer as did mine. I also admired how hard she’d worked to be taken seriously.

What she said during the show was disheartening and beneath her. I was a guest and deserved to be treated with respect. Perhaps she was trying to be funny, but it was at my expense. On a level playing field I can roll around in the mud of insult slinging with the best of ‘em. Ask any woman who’s ever mean-girled me. I’m not one to start, but my retorts will make even the most vicious chick gasp. Obviously, National TV was not the place for my comebacks even if I could’ve gotten beyond the shock and mustered up a few zingers.

AND, it’s not just the nobodies like me–it seems she’s crossed the line with celebrities, too. Click here and here to read more on that.

Several months after the “Katie” taping I was contacted by a producer from “The Steve Harvey Show” and was understandably gun-shy. It was the opposite of my first daytime talk show experience. The entire “Steve Harvey” team was amazing and he was wonderful. Whew.

Over a year ago, I was halfway through 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and was approached by a television production team about the possibility of shooting a pilot for a reality show based on the blog. I contemplated their offer and decided it wasn’t for me. Not the reality show, but the premise: my online dating life. I knew it would end up being one bad date after another and I’d become nothing more than a bitch. I didn’t want to be cruel for the cameras and had no desire to humiliate the men I dated (for the world to see). Sure, I was tough on them in the blog, but they were anonymous. I changed names, neighborhoods, children, etc. to guarantee they wouldn’t be identifiable. The public shaming of anyone is not something I’d enjoy.

After my experience, I’ve surmised, Ms. Couric and I don’t have as much in common as I once believed.

“At least for me personally, I’ve always tried to do a really good job every day, with each interview, and treat each interview seriously, and make the person I’m speaking with feel comfortable, hopefully make it an ideal experience.” Katie Couric

The other night I had two glasses of wine and my fingers were itching to be naughty.

Yep, I wanted to sext.

White wine does that to me. I know, how bourgeoisie.

But let me be clear. I didn’t want to send nude selfies. I was just looking to exchange some sexually charged messages with the man I’m rolling around with. Unfortunately, I’m tumbling solo these days and had to settle for several games of Tetris, which I’m worried has probably become an addiction and certainly a highly unsatisfactory substitute for a warm body.

Sexting is the new normal.

My daughters tell me everyone does it.

Gone are the days of phone sex. You aren’t even supposed to leave a voicemail message anymore. During the first two years of our relationship, my late husband and I lived apart—he in Toronto and I in Las Vegas. We saw each other every two weeks but in between we had frequent phone sex. It took some coercing for him to try since all inhibitions must go with thetelephonic dirty. He was a dignified guy who thought it was tawdry.

“It is,” I agreed, “That’s why it’s fun.”

Often we’d end up laughing. Sometimes the scenario created with steamy words didn’t match the mental picture but even when we were serious, it was harmless play between consenting adults.

I look forward to a future of Saucy Talk 2.0, where my fingers run free.

I had no problem with Anthony Weiner, either.

Photo courtesy of Esquire.com

Sure, it was stupid but I chalked it up to a typical guy who got caught in a ridiculous game with strangers. He wasn’t screwing those women, just behaving like lots of married men having cybersex.

Would I have been pissed if I were his wife? You better believe it. There would have been hell to pay, but I can honestly say I would’ve forgiven him. The oh so public part of it would be hard to handle, though.

Mr. Weiner suffered for his foibles. He lost his congressional seat; the world knew of his humiliating indiscretions and most importantly, his pregnant wife was the biggest victim. That was the tragic part.

BUT, everyone loves a good comeback and Anthony Weiner’s story is no exception. I was ready to vote for him in the NYC mayoral election and he was leading in several polls. It looked like he was the proverbial Phoenix and New Yorkers were about to see his rise (nope, not biting).

Then yesterday happened.

When I heard that more of his “junk” had surfaced I hoped it was from the past. Didn’t he tell us it might happen? Then I went online and read about it while waiting for the news conference. Surely he would offer proof this happened before he resigned from congress, right? He wouldn’t have continued that behavior after he was busted and certainly wouldn’t run for mayor if he hadn’t cleaned up his act?

WELL, HELL’S BELLS.

He kept it going.

Some may say it is an addiction. Maybe. Addiction specialists state a person has to hit rock bottom to change the behavior. How much lower did he have to go? What could possibly be more humbling than the consequences of his stupidity?

It appears Weiner forgot the 11th Commandment:

“Thou shalt not expose thy penis to strangers once you’ve been caught.”

For shit’s sake. His parents and in-laws now know his AKA is Carlos Danger.

“I’d leave him,” said my daughter Morgan. I was glad to hear it. It was painful to watch a woman of Huma Abedin’s stature read the statement she did. I played it over and over looking for contrition on Weiner’s face as his wife spoke. It just wasn’t there.

Perhaps he was never held accountable as a child. Maybe his parents allowed him to get away with impulsive, immature behavior and even if that’s the case, he’s now a grown man who’s chosen a public life. And he’s been fortunate. Clearly, he overachieved in his marriage and is certainly lucky to have that beautiful son. I guess it’s hard to think about a child when you’re acting like one yourself.

He should bow out of the race, IMHO. He should spend the rest of his life making it right with his wife. He should devote himself to his son and focus on living a scandal-free existence. He should do the right thing and never, ever make that mistake again because he’s used up his supply of blunders.

He lost my vote but he gets my advice:

Grow the fuck up, Carlos.

“I’ve looked on many women with lust. I’ve committed adultery in my heart many times. God knows I will do this and forgives me.” –-President Jimmy Carter

My quest to finish sixty days of Insanity and have a bikini-worthy bod has failed. Partly because I was benched after my unfortunate coccyx injury. The other part? I could give you a multitude of excuses as to why I didn’t get back on that bitch of a horse—I caught a horrible summer cold, my air conditioning sucks, I’m consumed with a new piece for a publication that’s rejected me half a dozen times, etc.

Are you rolling your eyes yet?

The truth? I just didn’t feel like doing it.

I know (for those who’ve finished the challenge), it’s life changing. I saw my body begin to transform and liked it. I simply hated that I never, ever, ever quit being sore. I’m a fairly healthy person and rarely get sick so feeling like crap day after day was depressing. There has to be some form of exercise that won’t kill me and I’m ready (gasp) to accept:

“She has a decent body, for her age.”

I might’ve cut out the offending tongue before.

I vividly remember a conversation I had in my late twenties with a cousin close to my age. We were both trying to lose the baby weight we’d gained during our pregnancies. We talked about the joy of letting it all go once we reached fifty. We decided that we’d buy lots of polyester pants with elastic waistbands and big billowy tops. Our free time would be spent skulking around garage sales. We’d eat anything we wanted—biscuits and gravy for breakfast, See’s Candies for lunch.

“Who cares when we’re old biddies!” we said, and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

What a couple of assholes.

First of all, I hate garage sales and why the hell did we think our sense of style would end once we turned fifty years old? I’m telling you now if you EVER see me wearing polyester pants walk up with a pair of scissors and cut them from my body. Leave me standing in my Hanky Panky because as embarrassing as my naked thong-wearing ass might be in public, I will not wear the fabric of my grandmother.

Um, yes, that’s a selfie I took in the mirror. What?

Now, yoga pants with Spandex or skinny jeans with Lycra? Can’t get enough. Could those be the 2013 version of polyester?

It doesn’t help that I’m experiencing the summertime blues. I’m usually happy but lately I’ve become so hangdoggie I can hardly stand myself. As I wrote last summer, lots of people feel sad around the holidays if they’re unattached but for me it’s warm weather and the lack of a plus one that brings me down. It’s not like I’m doing anything about it, though. I have the fantastic cards from Cheek’d with me at all times and just last week at Trader Joe’s I saw a handsome, age appropriate man nearby as I was checking out. I discretely maneuvered myself into a position to make sure the body matched the face and yep, it did. He was in good shape and his basket was filled with all kinds of interesting stuff.

Then I glanced down.

He was wearing sensible shoes.

A pair so tragically functional it was as if he worked in a machete factory and had butterfingers. I got so caught up in his dreadful footwear that I failed to swipe my card and the clerk had to ask my preferred method of payment–twice.

What would motivate someone to buy those beasts? Who’s his stylist, Herman Munster?

On Memorial Day I hosted a barbecue and invited eight guests. If movies and books are to be believed, New Yorkers have the most stimulating dinner conversations covering a wide range of topics such as: politics, literature, cool restaurants and art. I think that’s a fairly accurate portrayal. This city is filled to the brim with smart people and that took some adjusting when I first arrived.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s not that I’m giving Einstein any competition but I do feel I’m fairly intelligent or at least did until landing in 10023.

Reality?

I’m barely a C student here.

BUT, I’ve found, no matter the zip code, the chat always, and I mean always comes around to relationships. Who’s in one, who’s still looking. Inevitably there will be someone who offers suggestions to the singletons at the table. Perhaps sharing a successful formula for finding a match.

That happened during my dinner party.

A recently engaged guest suggested (to the single ladies) that we make a commitment to meet at least once a week, preferably twice weekly, at different happy hour spots in the city. We should gather from 5:30 pm to 7:30 pm as a group in different neighborhoods to meet different kinds of guys. She said she’d join us and be our wingwoman, initiating conversations with the men we found interesting. “What do I have to lose?” she asked. Her fiancé said he’d occasionally come too.

I thought it was a brilliant strategy and one that would work perfectly with something NEW I’d stumbled upon, Cheek’d.

Here’s how Cheek’d works. You sign up and create a basic profile. You order a set of Cheek’d cards that you keep with you at all times. If you happen to see someone you are interested in you walk up, hand them a card and walk away. Simple, painless and no risk of rejection and the next move is theirs. The information on the card tells them where they can find you. They go to the cheekd.com and enter a code that takes them to your profile where they can send you a message.

How ingenious is that?

Now, instead of perusing profiles and ending up disappointed with the person once you’re face to face, you’ve already determined there’s an attraction. No more missed opportunities, either. How many times have you seen someone and wished for the courage to make contact? It happens to me often and once they’re gone the chances are almost zero that I’ll see then again. I even wrote a post about missed opportunities during my year of online dating.

The cards are clever. Here are some examples:

look up. you might miss something.

this is your lucky day.

you can thank me later.

shouldn’t you be asleep at this hour?

i’m a keeper.

this leads to someone you should meet.

don’t let me get away.

your move.

where have i been all your life?

this card is good for finding me again.

i’m totally cooler than your date.

i’m hitting on you.

So, I’m going to combine the weekly happy hour gatherings with the cards and see what happens. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m also keeping them with me every single time I leave the apartment. You never know who you might see walking down the street or at the deli counter at Fairway Market, right?

UPDATE: Within fifteen minutes of this post going live, Lori Cheek of Cheek’d found me on Facebook and offered 50% off your card order. Use the promo code: SUMMERLOVIN. Thank you so much, Ms. Cheek!

Insanity Update: I should be almost finished with my 60-day challenge. Unfortunately, I fell a couple of weeks ago (totally sober and with an audience), and bruised my coccyx. I wrote a blog post called “Coccyx Blocked” but my “editor” told me it was quite boring so I scrapped it. The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that I took two weeks off to let my tailbone heal and started back on Insanity this week. UGH, it was too soon so I’m giving myself a little more time to recover and then I’ll get back to cursing Shaun T and that perky chick on the DVD who smiles through the torture. I’ll let you know the outcome and am still committed to wearing a bikini if the results are good.

“Opportunities are never lost; someone will take the one you miss.” Author Unknown

Rarely having the disposable income to hire it done has certainly contributed to the condition. In New York City there are people willing to do just about anything you don’t prefer to do–for a fee, of course.

Want a lightly toasted bagel and coffee delivered precisely ten minutes before you head to work in the morning? No problem.

I don’t indulge in the many conveniences living here offers and sometimes gripe about what a pain in the ass it is to reside in a crowded city while doing everything for yourself. Especially as I lug a new vacuum ten blocks from Bed Bath and Beyond to my apartment.

Last week I helped a friend empty her storage unit. She rented it seven years ago and the stuff had been inside, undisturbed, for all that time. Everything is crazy expensive in the city and storage units are no exception. Like most Manhattanites, she looked for ways to cut costs and paying to store forgotten possessions was a logical thing to chop. I told her if we could do it in three hours I was available as I had plans early that night (more on that later). We headed to Manhattan Mini Storage and got busy. I created three piles: Garbage, Sell, and Keep. Once finished she thanked me and commented on my physical strength as I lifted heavy boxes and suitcases from an upper level unit that required standing on a ladder and reaching inside. I am strong and I attribute that to my father. Being a girl never got me a manual labor pass. If something substantial had to be hoisted or carried I was expected to grab a side and go, without hesitation. Whining was never an option and I longed for gender discrimination at home (“Girls can’t do that!”). But since my dad did the grocery shopping and cooking along with the heavy lifting, the Equal Rights Amendment reached ratification in 1972 in one tract home on McKinley Avenue.

On Saturday I went to Home Depot. Just the scent of a hardware store makes me happy and there’s nothing I love more than walking the aisles while in my mind creating the next home improvement project I’d like to tackle. Many are just pipedreams—the result of living in a rental apartment where management might get testy if I walked in with the bathtub of my dreams and a sledgehammer.

Still, I’m considering sneaking in some glass tile and grout for a backsplash in my kitchen. I’ve watched several “how to” videos on YouTube and I think I can do it. Saturday I was there to buy containers and several bags of potting soil.

On the weekend there’s a man who sets up a stand near my street on Broadway. He sells deeply discounted flowers and plants that have seen better days. I have a suspicion he gets his wares from the dumpsters of florists. I call him Dead Flower Guy and snicker when I see people actually paying for those wilted bouquets. I turned into one of those fools on Saturday when I noticed two (not too dead) azalea plants. The price was right and I bought them. My daughter Morgan brought the car to the 3rd Avenue Home Depot and we loaded the bags of soil and pots inside—she helped bring them into my building, too. Pedro (doorman extraordinaire) jumped up to give us a hand as he always does. “You two are always dragging in something heavy,” he said, laughing.

I planted the azaleas on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and it felt good to be in the sunshine on the terrace up to my elbows in dirt.

It was also a bit lonely.

I longed for someone to share in the toiling as well as the moment where one stands back and admires the accomplishment.

Not just any man. THE man.

Last Friday night I squeezed into shape wear and met a single girlfriend for drinks. Our goal was to find a happy hour spot where age appropriate single men gather. We started at Milos and went to another place nearby, but had no luck.

If anyone knows where men of a certain age gather after work in Manhattan, please share the love.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of online dating. As much as I enjoyed blogging about the experiences, one awful meeting after another took its toll. It has taken several months to consider dating again and that might explain gaining seven pounds. When I took myself off the market I was no longer competing with the plethora of walking x-rays who inhabit this city. OK, I’m a little jealous of their ability to survive each day eating only a carrot and I’ve decided to forgo Levain cookies and Empire’s snack cakes until I’m comfortable parading around my apartment in the nude with the blinds open. I’m also two weeks into the Insanity 60 Day Challenge, Shaun T is still kicking my badonk, but I’ve noticed my body is starting to change.

It’s time to get back on the horse.

My life is dogma-free. You will never find me praying to God, Allah, Buddha or Jesus. I’m not even sure what I believe. I’m more comfortable sending my hopes to the ambiguous Universe. I regularly propel thoughts out there and then forget them until what I’ve asked for materializes.

Here are a couple examples:

The only thing I miss about my home in Las Vegas is outdoor space—a rarity in Manhattan. I threw out my request and then didn’t give it another thought. A year ago a friend was moving to Palm Springs and he owned an amazing apartment a couple of blocks away. No outdoor space but it had a washer and dryer—quite a luxury. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to move. All that was left was approval from his apartment board. “Only a technicality,” he was told. A day later my friend called with bad news. His building was pet-friendly, but only for owners. Anyone renting an apartment couldn’t have pets. I was so disappointed but I figured something better was coming. Several months later I went with a friend to an apartment on the roof of my building. She knew the tenant and was feeding her cats while she was away. I walked outside and admired the second apartment on the roof. The outdoor space was amazing. At that moment a woman walked outside to hang wet clothes on the railing and I yelled from across the roof, “You’re living in my dream apartment.” She replied, “We just gave notice. It’s available October 1st.” One minute earlier or later I would’ve missed her. The Universe conspired to give me that information and I’m now living my dream.

I planned to get another dog. Kate was lonely and needed a friend. What I wanted was a Norwich Terrier, but I had a problem buying a dog given the amount of rescues in need of homes. A Norwich rescue just doesn’t exist as there are a small number of breeders and they keep tight control of where the puppies go. Every new owner must sign a document that states if they can no longer care for the dog they’ll return it to the breeder. They’re also very expensive. I contacted a couple of breeders and they chuckled at my naïve request. One told me, haughtily, “The Norwich is never a rescue.” Oh, pardon me. I quit thinking about a friend for Kate and figured The Universe would lead me to the right dog. Six months later I got an email message from a breeder who was a friend of a friend. She’d heard that I was looking for a rescue and she had a dog that was purchased because the buyer wanted a dog that might be good enough for Westminster. This breeder had a “Best in Breed” at Westminster many years ago and felt that the male puppy she had could be the next. After a year of working with a handler in preparation for the show ring it was determined that the dog was too big. The then-owner asked the breeder if she could give the dog to her adult daughter. The breeder agreed. Two years later the daughter had three children under five and couldn’t give the dog the proper attention. She contacted the breeder again and asked if she could return Nigel. The breeder had heard of my desire to adopt a rescue Norwich and she reached out to me. I was a bit concerned because the dog was going to be sent back to the breeder in California and I would have to fly to California to get him. I was leaving in two days for my annual summer trip to Virginia Beach so the timing was horrible. I spoke to the breeder and told her of upcoming vacation.“Where’s the dog now?” I asked.

“In Virginia,” she replied.

“Where in Virginia?”

“Virginia Beach.”

Two days later, Nigel was mine. I can’t imagine anyone thinking that was a coincidence. Thanks, Universe.

These are just two examples of things that happen often. That’s why I don’t “muscle through” life anymore. When something was difficult, the old me would plow through the muck no matter how tough–forcing the outcome. It seemed when I pushed hardest and got what I wanted it turned into a mistake. Now I know there’s a reason it’s not easy, something better is waiting if I can let go.

On Sunday, feeling lonely as I planted here’s what I asked for:

“This time around I want a man who’s handy. Someone who won’t roll his eyes but instead roll up his sleeves when I have an idea. He’s got to be sophisticated, though, and an Irish accent wouldn’t hurt.”

I know. The accent part was over the top but when sending thoughts into the ether of no deity, one is allowed to be a greedy bitch. Plus, “wouldn’t hurt” was only a suggestion.

I picture a fifty-year-old version of Gerard Butler, comfortable with a multitude of drill bits. The kind of guy who uses a level instead of determining a picture is straight by eyeballing it. I imagine we’ll tackle the occasional project together and he’ll do most of the heavy lifting. I can see us laughing as we work and when we’re finished, he’ll put his arm around me while we admire our accomplishment. Later that evening he’ll suggest I put on something sexy since he’s made a dinner reservation at Per Se.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.” Albert Einstein

To read an interview I gave to Kevin Ryan for Huffington Post click here.

OK, “crawled” is probably the wrong word. I slowly and painfully maneuvered the streets from my apartment to doggie paradise with a stiff-legged hitch-y walk that should only be described as strange. Even Nigel was embarrassed to be seen with me.

“I’m so ashamed. All the dogs are laughing at us.”

Kate just pretended I was her dog walker.

“I don’t even know her name. She gets paid to walk us.”

Was I out partying the night before with an amazing man? Did the evening end with bedroom gymnastics that wreaked havoc on my middle-aged bod?

Don’t I wish.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of blogging. The highlight of my weekend was buying a new sofa and these days I’m buying flowers for myself.

The reason people on the streets were looking at me oddly as I winced my way east is because I started the Insanity Workout. Yesterday was simply the fitness test portion and I can only assume, by the level of agony I’m experiencing, I failed miserably. Shaun T asked if I was ready to dig deep. “Shut up, Shaun. I’ll be lucky to scratch around the surface for forty minutes.” It took me all of sixty seconds for the perky little six pack abs chick to get on my nerves. She was all bubbly and smiley as I groaned and panted through the process.

Insanity claims that if you do the workout for 60 days you’ll have the beach body that would normally take a year to achieve. Um, we’ll see. I’ve been gearing up for this for about a month. I even bought new shoes and I hate to spend money on footwear that won’t contribute a thing to my wardrobe.

My daughter Morgan has a couple of friends who’ve had amazing results. Granted, they’re twenty-somethings and their nimble bodies spring back much quicker. I’m well aware my lissome days are over, but do I have one more bikini body summer lurking under the aftermath of a sedentary winter?

I’ve let myself go over the last several months and the result is a seven-pound weight gain. I kept it together during my year of online dating. “Put your best ass forward,” and all that. I also had great motivation to stay on top of the weight with the appearances on The Steve Harvey Show.

All it takes is to see one television personality in the flesh to understand just how skinny one must be to appear normal. Believe me, if someone looks slightly chubby on the small screen, they’re probably in need of IV nutrition.

At one time I had a hot body and it wasn’t in my twenties, but my thirties. I’m not saying that to brag. It’s the truth.

My friend Rick took me to see Rod Stewart on a dateless Valentine’s Day. I call this the “illusive collarbone shot.”

I wore a size two and NOTHING jiggled. Sure, I worked out but it was easy back then. I’d go to the gym, lift some lighter weights, take an aerobics class a few times a week and voilà my body rocked. As I’ve said before, the thirties were my glory years for a number of reasons. It was when I discovered the woman buried under the bad marriage and (much too young) motherhood of my twenties. It didn’t hurt to have the outside package to accompany the good stuff going on beneath the surface.

The quality is awful because I’ve often held it and cried.

Why the hell didn’t I take nude photos?

I swear I’d have them up in my living room today. In fact, I’d probably forgo any other form of wall adornment for poster-size birthday suit pics anywhere the eye could see.

“Yeah, Time Warner cable guy, those are my lady bits right there on the wall. Give ’em a good look.”

I took the recommended photos of my before body. It is suggested that those participating in the Insanity program download them to the site for everyone to see and so after sixty days you can get the “I’ve Earned It” t-shirt.

Are they out of their fucking minds?

If I’m showing anyone this muffin top he’d better be liquored up, buck naked and ready to tell all kinds of lies. I wouldn’t walk down a flight of stairs for a goddamn t-shirt. Maybe a spoonful of Skippy Natural Creamy with Honey, though.

BUT, I will promise you this. If I make it through the challenge AND I think my body looks reasonably acceptable in a bikini, I’ll post a photo on the blog. So far one day in and I’m ready to quit. Who knew the fat on the side of one’s knees could be so sore? Those bat wing thingamajigs at the back of my armpits, too?

UGH, aging.

This morning as I staggered back from Central Park and into the building my doorman Frank asked about my unusual gait. He’s wanted to try Insanity and quizzed me about it. I have no doubt he’ll have a much easier time than me and when I finally made it to the elevator, Frank yelled one final question my way,

“Are you sure you’re ready for all the attention you’ll have if you get that beach body?”

Now that was snicker-worthy. If I can rock a bikini for one more summer, this time around I’ll be grateful for any second glance I might receive. I’ll savor every moment because today I’m acutely aware of just how fleeting those experiences can be.

As I stepped off the plane and into the jet bridge the sunshine streaming through the small window reminded me of where I was. Home. It was wince-worthy and I mumbled a curse word or two as I diverted my eyes. Growing up in perpetual sunshine I craved gloomy overcast days.

My father was having health issues and I’d returned to Las Vegas to spend time with him. His wife was traveling and he shouldn’t be alone. It is a painful thing to witness the inevitable decline of a parent. The loss of dignity in the aging process sometimes feels like a kick to the stomach especially when the father has been the invincible one.

My dad’s home abuts a mesa where I used to walk my dogs every morning. It was the desert at its best—rabbits, lizards, snakes and even the occasional coyote. It’s been almost four years since I trekked through the sagebrush and stepped around the occasional abandoned mattress–dumped by someone not wanting to dispose of it properly—and it felt odd to be back. A lot had changed. I took my dad’s elderly dog, Buffy, out for a daily walk in the “new and improved” Whitney Mesa. It’s become a park filled with paved walkways, grassy areas, picnic tables and a playground. They’ve even put up warning signs.

I’m not a fan.

It’s quite lovely and exceptionally clean but the wildness is gone.

My last visit to the mesa before leaving for New York City four years ago included the perfect sendoff. For several months prior to my departure each walk included a lone coyote. I’d see him in the distance out of the corner of my eye and then he’d disappear into the brush or his den. I’d seen many coyotes growing up in the desert, but he was the largest and his coloring was not the typical light brown, he was almost white.

It made me a little nervous but he was always a respectable distance away. Still, I took to carrying pepper spray just in case.

On that last day in late August everything changed. I found out later from one of my dad’s neighbors that he’d taken a mate and they thought there might be pups. The coyote had little fear of humans as some had been feeding him. Big mistake. This time he brazenly stalked my dogs and me. He followed about fifty yards behind us and when I stopped and turned around he would pause, as well, while boldly staring me down. I did not feel safe and I knew he probably intended to make a meal of Kate. I also had my daughter’s dog Lola, a tasty pug casserole, indeed.

As the coyote began closing the distance between us I realized that he wasn’t going to let me walk out of the mesa before making his move and the gate leading to my father’s street was too far away to make a dash for it. I also remembered what my idol Cesar Milan said. “Once you start running you become prey.”

He was about twenty yards away and I pulled the dogs closer as I whipped around and stared him down. “GET OUTTA HERE,” I yelled, stomping my feet and waving my hands while channeling Barry White’s deep voice. The coyote began barking—an eerie sound that was feral with nothing dog-like about it. It seemed to go on forever and my pack was terrified.

Party girl Lola had her ears flat and her head low and Kate was next to me, quivering with her eyes on the predator. I continued to yell and stomp and he kept barking. The hair on the back of my neck stood up with his unnerving wail as it reverberated off the sandstone walls surrounding us.

I looked around for some sort of stick to use but there was none so I picked up a rock and hurled it in his direction. He yelped in surprise as it skidded next to him. Then he was silent. I waved my arms some more and growled, “GET GOING,” over and over as I looked around for another rock. He seemed to know I was going to throw something else. His ears flattened, his head dropped as he slowly, ever so slowly skulked away.

It was finally quiet and I think I could hear my heart pounding.

Then the clapping and cheering started.

Really, it did.

“WHOO HOO. GOOD FOR YOU. YOU DID IT.”

I hadn’t realized there was an audience. Two neighbors were in their backyard watching the standoff behind the cement block fence that bordered their home.

“He’s been getting more and more aggressive,” they shouted.

I felt sort of proud, kind of Annie Oakley-ish, but it was also confirmation that the change I was making was the right one. I wouldn’t have gone back to that mesa again with the dogs as long as the coyote was there and with the housing boom the desert had turned into one big tract home development after another, encroaching on the wildlife that was there first.

It was as if that coyote had had enough.

I respected his bravado.

The following morning I got in my car and started my cross-country drive to the Big Apple. I thought about the safety in walking Kate on the streets of Manhattan. Little did I know she’d get out one night and end up alone in Central Park where–I was shocked to learn–there have been numerous coyote sightings.

Boot Camp Update: I held the first Online Dating Boot Camp/Workshop on March 19th at Redemption Bar.

It was great fun. If you’re interested in what some of the attendees had to say about the experience, click on the Boot Camp tab to read their testimonials. I’ll add more as soon as I receive them. I’m holding another towards the end of April or beginning of May. I haven’t got a firm date yet, but if you’re interested in attending (or know someone who might be) just shoot me an email through the contact form on this website and I’ll get the information to you once I’ve settled on the date. I’m also doing some private consulting and I’ll soon be posting a testimonial from my first client. Who knew I could take my year of blogging and turn it into something like this? I guess it makes being scarred for LIFE almost worth it. Ha!

When I appeared on The Steve Harvey Show something that stuck in my craw was a statement Steve made. “I think the blog is hurting your chances of meeting a man.” Then he followed with “You should quit the blog.” That last suggestion ended up on the cutting room floor so those watching the show didn’t hear it. Oh, but I did.

I wasn’t elated.

Now, I knew that most men I dated weren’t thrilled with the prospect of becoming blog fodder. What kind of idiot would enjoy that? But the blog had brought such joy to my life. I loved the comments from readers. Especially when my tales resonated with women. It was the reason I’d started the thing in the first place since I was looking for, and couldn’t find, a narrative that confirmed what one needs when dealing with a touch situation:

“You are not alone.”

I was over the moon when I received comments from men who read the blog and used it as a What Not To Do manifesto. When Steve told me to quit before the year was up I was annoyed. Didn’t he understand I had a loyal following?

I’d made a commitment, damnit!

“Are you making any money from the blog?” Mr. Harvey asked when he saw the look on my face. He was probably thinking: This bitch is crazy.

“No, and my year is almost up. I have two months left.”

He suggested that since I was an attractive, positive woman I should blog about that. Put those dating tales of woe behind me. Yeah, it was sage advice and it wasn’t happening.

BUT it did get me thinking.

There had to be a way to use the blog as a springboard to other things that might help me earn a living. The obvious choice was a book. I’m working on that now, but I came up with a second idea just after DatingAdvice.com named me one of the “Ten Best Online Dating Experts.”

Sheesh, that was unexpected and quite an honor.

I decided to create an online dating workshop/boot camp for men (click on the tab if you’re interested). A three hour class where twenty men are taken through the online dating process–beginning to end. A friend of mine gave it a subtitle: Making the World a Better Place for Women: Twenty Clueless Men at a Time. She wasn’t being mean. What I’d give to take a class on what men were really thinking. I’d love to better understand the common, yet quirky aspects of the average guy.

In a couple of weeks I’ll hold my first workshop. I’m very comfortable in front of an audience. I was a corporate trainer for the bulk of my career. Give me snappy presentation and a room full of bodies and I’ll do my thing. It’s never boring. I’ve found that any subject is better with humor. In my former career you should’ve seen what I did with Harassment and Discrimination Awareness–brought the house down with that one.

My latest Huffpost piece is all about the upcoming boot camp. If you’re a follower who’s transitioned from www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com to here and you are feeling charitable, I’d appreciate a comment on The Huffington Post site. If you could direct your comment to the men who might be reading the article and considering the workshop, I’d be grateful. Let them know why you think they should attend.

Neal’s plane from Toronto was delayed several hours. I hadn’t checked the flights before leaving the house so I was at McCarran Airport two hours ahead of schedule. It was rare that I had nothing to do with raising two teenagers and a demanding job. I meandered through the stores looking at stuff that visitors bought last minute to commemorate their trip to Sin City.

As I picked up Las Vegas shot glasses, flipped through racks of cheesy T-shirts and caught up on celebrity gossip in the magazine section, I thought about luck.

Many previous V-days were spent with a man I’d been with off and on for several years. Our relationship was far from perfect—some might say even toxic—but I was worn down and tired of hoping for something better. He loved my daughters and me and I wanted to have a partner.

BUT there’s nothing that illuminates a bad pairing more than meeting the Yin to one’s Yang.

Earlier that day a ridiculously large box of tulips was delivered to my office.

My favorite flower, and there were dozens in that package direct from Holland. There was also a note:

We’re so lucky to have found each other. Some of the women you work with won’t receive flowers today. Please share these with them. I love you forever, Neal.

Waiting just outside of Security I saw him approaching before he saw me. No matter how many times I watched him head my way I still couldn’t believe he was with me.

He always carried on his bag—not trusting baggage handlers in what he called “cowboy country.” By then it was almost midnight and we decided to drive until we got tired. We’d booked a room for the weekend in our destination, but we weren’t going to make it there that night.

By Barstow we were bushed. A bedraggled motel was the best we could do and Neal chastised me for walking barefoot from the shower to the bed as he brushed his teeth—wearing only his loafers.

Waiting for me on the pillow was a card and my favorite holiday sweets. Neal was a Godiva Chocolates sort of guy but that box would be for some other chick. I’m vintage and get an unnaturally large kick out of these.

Come on. If my candy’s saying:

“Cutie Pie”

Purr Fect”

“So Fine”

Or the best:

“Cool Cat”

It can’t be wrong.

The next morning we grabbed a McMuffin, and hit the road. A couple of hours later we’d arrived. I’ve been to lots of romantic spots but there’s something about Laguna Beach that’s especially magical. This was not a new experience—I’d been there multiple times since I was a child–I’d also visited with other men. The difference that weekend was that Neal and I were so in love. We could be anywhere and immersed in each other, but given that setting that exuded eroticism and it was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t that we did anything different than I’d done previously but it was the ocean, the way it looked, the salty scent and feel on the skin, the relaxed beach town vibe that encouraged the tactile.

We stayed at the Surf and Sand Resort and slept that Saturday night with the door to our balcony open.

The sound of the waves crashing caused me to fall into a deep sleep that would’ve lasted until morning had Neal not awakened me. Always a light and sporadic sleeper I would often find the space next to me empty but on that night he was there, his mouth next to my ear, repeating my name.

He took my hand and led me to the balcony overlooking the surf. He wanted to share the view of the deserted beach and the water lit up by the moon. We were alone.

The next morning we took a walk on that beach and I asked him to go barefoot. He protested, reminding me how much he disliked sand between his toes–so unclean, and all that. But he finally acquiesced and grimaced a little for effect.

I knew the truth.

Neal was so beautiful in (almost) every way but he had the most heinous feet. Large, wide caveman-like monstrosities with a big toe that was startling in it’s girth. The first time I saw those tootsies I winced and then insisted he put them in my lap for closer inspection. After a few minutes of silent observation while running my hands over every part I nodded and said:

“Yep, those are without a doubt the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen.”

After he died, when I needed to smile I’d simply put my hand into his shoe to feel the deep impression left in the lining by that toe. I’d remember my merciless teasing and his laughter that always followed.

So Neal took off his shoes, we walked on the beach barefoot and then asked a stranger to take a photo.

The drive back to Las Vegas (and to the airport for his departure) was a quiet but comfortable one. We were both smoothed out–mellowed by the experience. Neal told me that for the first time, in as long as he could remember, he slept for the entire flight back to Toronto.

I grew up in Las Vegas and there are certain things one might associate with a desert. Lizards, cacti, tumbleweeds and hot, oh so hot weather, but an ice skating rink? Not a chance. But just like so many contradictory things about my hometown there it was, The International Ice Palace, juxtaposed in a shopping center with a parking lot of black pavement so scorching that on most days could burn the soles off your feet. I was in sixth grade and on Friday afternoons we rode the bus from our school to the indoor rink for a few hours of zipping around in circles with rented white skates.

I was pretty good.

I was also eleven years old.

Have you ever had a skill you acquired in your youth that kicks your ass in adulthood?

Humbling, right?

How about having that humiliation on national television? That was my biggest fear when the producers of The Steve Harvey Show told me that one of my arranged dates with Rick would include ice-skating. I’m, um, a bit of a klutz. In a post I wrote on www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com I describe a date where I fell flat on my ass.

In a fancy restaurant.

Packed with the lunchtime crowd.

On a first date.

Here’s what my friends say:

“You glide into a room—head high, shoulders back like you own the place then you eat shit better than anyone.”

Have I mentioned that I have the most charming group of friends?

Alright, enough bellyaching–on to the dates.

I waited on the bench outside of the skating rink for Rick. I had a smile on my face but inside I was a wreck. What if I didn’t feel any attraction towards this man? I’d already had that sort of experience with my last date on the show and was worried that it would begin to look like a pattern. “Isthis a pattern?” I asked myself while waiting.

When I saw Rick approaching I turned towards the producer and saw her smiling.

Halle-flippin-lujah!

He was good looking,–I was definitely attracted to him physically, and after a few minutes of speaking he seemed like a nice man. We laced our skates, hit the ice and Rick confirmed my initial impression. He was a true gentleman. He extended his arm as soon as he saw my apprehension. I was grateful.

Shit, that ice was slippery.

I can hear you say DUH from here, by the way.

I’d also forgotten just how much ankle strength it requires. Not wanting to be a big whiner, I skated through the pain, but let me tell you if my fifty-one year old ankles could talk they would’ve said,

“Bitch, please. Sit your ass down and drink some hot chocolate and add a shot of whiskey.”

Here’s what I knew by the end of the first date:

1. I was physically attracted to Rick.

2. I liked him as a person.

3. He was a gentleman.

4. I needed to elevate my throbbing ankles and get my hands on some pain meds, pronto.

I believe the second date (salsa dancing) gave me more anxiety than the first and here’s why. I’m not a horrible dancer but no one’s mistaking me for J-Lo either. Sad but true–I’m no Fly Girl. Just think about it the next time you hit the dance floor at a party. Would you want millions of strangers watching you shake your groove thing? Then there was the awkwardness of being so physically close to a man I didn’t know well, but salsa it was.

Rick was a much better dancer than I. I’m not sure if you’ll see that in the video, but he rocked. After a few minutes with our patient (and ridiculously young and beautiful) dance instructor, I forgot the cameras were rolling and began to relax and enjoy the lesson.

PLUS, I had on great shoes. If one’s going to look like a fool it’s best to do it fashionably.

Chie Mihara-several years old. LOVE these!

After an hour of those hip moves I’d forgotten my ankles and focused on the icepack I’d be putting on my midsection once I returned to the hotel. I’m reminded of my grandmother—damn you, aging process!

Rick and I didn’t have much time to talk and I looked forward to our third date, which I was glad to know didn’t include zip lining or bungee jumping.

Dinner, just dinner.

Rick looked amazing as he walked towards the table in his suit. It was a perfect fit and I loved the European cut. I was very relaxed and during dinner I got to know him much better. He talked about his adult children and the significance of being a good father. He also talked briefly about his divorce and asked me about mine and that’s when I shared that I was a widow. I know that’s not the sort of information that’s expected and I usually share it on the first date. I think perhaps that’s too soon and I was glad I waited this time. Mr. Harvey gave me that advice the last time I was on the show and he was right.

I HIGHLY recommend this glorious restaurant if you’re in Chicago. Here are some photos that Rick asked me to take of the food.

Mussel-compliments of the chef. One bite of amazing.

Rick and I shared this first course of beet salad. Yum!

We also shared their version of risotto. Excellent.

Rick had the beef. I had a bite and it was sublime.

I had the lobster. The best I’ve ever tasted.

As you can see, they are each a work of art and my compliments to the fabulous chef, our server, Carlos, and the warm and welcoming hostess—what a perfect dining experience from start to finish.

After dinner we shared a cab and Rick walked me into my hotel. He really is such a gentleman. We had a nightcap at the hotel bar, and it was nice to talk without cameras. We were going to try to get together the following evening but Rick had been coughing during dinner and it got worse during our drink. By the following day he was quite ill and we had to postpone our date (sans cameras) but we had a lengthy phone conversation.

The next time we saw each other was during the taping of the show. I thought Rick looked quite dashing in his suit and there wasn’t any awkwardness between us. He suggested we go on a fourth date—a cooking class. We both are foodies.

We’ve exchanged several text messages and talked in the last two weeks. Rick lives in the Chicago area and I’m in New York. Everyone knows that a long distance relationship is difficult, but simply dating long distance seems even tougher. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll visit Chicago or Rick will have a reason to be in NYC. If either happens I have no doubt that we’ll meet up again. It will probably be that cooking class he suggested. After three dates I don’t know everything about him but what I do know is he’s a man of his word.

Handsome, smart and guy who does what he says. I think it’s safe to say that Rick is quite a catch.

I’m the first to laugh at my clumsiness. Check out these outtakes from the show by clicking here.

For those who’ve been following my antics for the last year I say, “Hello, old friends!” If you’re new I’m happy you’re here and I’ll try not to shock you too much this first time as I’ve been known to have a bit of a cyber potty mouth.

Today my daughters and I appeared on The Steve Harvey Show. What an experience. A producer found www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and loved the blog–especially the relationship with my adult daughters and their advice during my year of looking for love. From some of the disaster dates I’d been on there was probably some things I was doing wrong and perhaps Steve could help.

He is kind of the Love Guru (cue porn music here).

They flew us to Chicago to tape the show. We felt very fancy as the driver picked us up at the airport.

He drove us to the Amalfi, a fantastic boutique hotel in downtown Chicago.

We had a few days of shooting video to tell the backstory. It’s strange because when talking about Neal, my late husband, I got quite emotional. It has been six years since he died and my reaction was surprising. I suppose there’s a prepared script in general conversations that one uses when describing the death of a loved one. The Things I Can Say Without Crying sort of thing and the producer asked questions that I don’t normally answer. Bottom line, I miss him terribly and probably always will. That longing for something that was is always exacerbated by circumstances both extremely good or very bad.

Being on the show was one of those extremely good things that I wished I could share with Neal. Yet the very thing that brought me there (the dating blog) would never have happened if he were still alive. Discovering my passion for writing wouldn’t have happened either since I wrote the book after his death as a way to honor him. There was a part of me that was unfulfilled, although I didn’t know it, and writing has filled the void.

I often wonder if Neal had lived would I have realized the need for creative expression? I thought my world was complete—he was all I needed. Not so.

Life is weird, right?

For instance, I’m an extremely private person. For most of my adult life I’ve only shared personal stuff with a small circle of friends and yet I’ve spent the last year putting the most private and intimate details of my world out there for all to see. Lately there’s been a lot said about the over sharing that’s occurred with the vast number of memoirs on the shelves and, gasp, Reality TV.

Come on. When you’ve invited your dear friend Mel Gibson to sit at your table when accepting the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award at the Golden Globes, getting all judge-y is perhaps not the best plan. In my humble opinion, of course.

I guess Jodie wouldn’t approve of the dating blog. Darn, I always hoped we could be friends.

OK, now back to Steve Harvey.

The girls picked a guy for me to go out with. Now that was different. They are a tough duo. Generally, my oldest Morgan, hates every guy I date–at least in the beginning. Plus, I’ve been known to be a tad picky. I’ve got this aversion to excessive nose hair and with the over fifty crowd it’s a jungle up there. This was no easy task but they chose a very nice man, Denny. Was it a love connection? Well, no. He was a good guy but there was no spark.

There’s got to be a flicker of lust.

I need to feel that at some point I’ll want to take my clothes off.

What?

Even women my age and older still want to get naked.

After the date we exchanged a couple of email messages—the usual pleasantries. I thanked him for being a good sport.

He suggested I was a serial dater—several times.

I didn’t take too kindly to his assessment (might’ve gotten a little terse) but we reached an understanding and wished each other the best. He told me he’s met someone and is happy. I’m glad for him.

Being on the show was the highlight of our trip to Chicago. Steve has the most amazing people working for him. Every single one of them. From the producers to the cameramen, the sound guys to hair and makeup, they were all absolute professionals and just nice people.

It was the experience of a lifetime for the three of us and I want to thank Steve Harvey for allowing me to tell my story, calling me out when he thought I was full of shit, and for genuinely caring about my success in this search for love.

At the airport and headed home.

He’s even invited me back so stay tuned, there’s more to come.

Yep, that’s me under The Bean.

I’m trying something new. I’ve created a special video for those who’ve subscribed to this blog. I discuss the three questions my friends asked when I told them I was going to be on The Steve Harvey Show. If you’re interested, just subscribe—it is over there at the top on the right margin. You’ll be notified when there’s a new blog post AND you’ll be sent a link to the video.